


so down until i told you

by PaperRevolution



Series: outer-space mover [3]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Alternate Universe - Space, M/M, Trans Male Character, Transphobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-05
Updated: 2017-11-05
Packaged: 2019-01-29 12:19:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12630945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaperRevolution/pseuds/PaperRevolution
Summary: Space AU. What starts out as a casual conversation becomes something much more personal, and Ecthelion panics.





	so down until i told you

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Warning for mentions of transphobia/characters using transphobic language  
> 2\. Glorfindel is a delight, though, so hopefully things kind of balance out?

“You’re so—“ Glorfindel shrugs his shoulders helplessly, “Pretty. It isn’t fair.”

Ecthelion pauses in the act of buckling his mag boots.

He looks up. Glorfindel’s expression is somehow both petulant and earnest. There’s no malice in it, but still the word prickles him. Like a hundred tiny electric shocks, and not in a pleasant way.

“I think you’ve got the monopoly on ‘pretty’,” he says lightly. “You of the ridiculously muscled arms and stupid amounts of flaxen hair.”

Gods, but he hates the way his voice sounds. How high and bright and smooth it is. It’s all wrong.

Glorfindel laughs. “Nope. I’m handsome, okay—“

“—And modest.”

“—But not pretty. You, though. You’re fucking stunning. It shouldn’t be allowed.”

Ecthelion straightens up, pushing strands of fine dark hair out of his eyes. He finds, abruptly, that he’s fighting down a sick, fluttery feeling like the beginnings of panic.

What if Glorfindel knows?

What if he knows? What if he’s realised what Ecthelion is? What he used to be?

(“You’re a nice girl,” says the pale-eyed man in his memory, with a crocodile smile. “You won’t make a nice boy.”)

“I’m not,” he says flatly, adjusting the mic on his collar.

(“That’s not how it works.”)

“I’m really, really not.”

Glorfindel raises his eyebrows. He pushes off from the doorframe, where he’s been leaning. “Okay...”

“Okay. Okay!”

“You sound kind of—“ Glorfindel casts around for the right word. “Strangled.”

Deep breath. In. Out. How can he know? He can’t know. There’s no way—

What if he does know? What if he’s freaked out by it and stops wanting to train together? What if he starts calling him “she”?

Ecthelion’s stomach clenches. His hands are trembling and he wants to stuff them into his pockets, but the IEVA suit doesn’t have any pockets.

“Uh, I’m just. Feel a bit sick. Nervous. Going off-ship makes me nervous.”

Glorfindel’s eyebrows seem in danger of disappearing into his hair. “Thel. You love going off-ship.”

Oh, Gods. His heart is pounding like a hail of asteroids. He knows. Heknowshekowsheknows. Shit. He’s going to be sick. He’s going to be sick right there outside the antigrav chamber and—and—

“Hey.” Glorfindel’s voice is uncharacteristically serious, now. “What is it? What’s going on?”

(“Freak! Fucking freak! You belong on Angband, you do, with all the crazies!”)

Ecthelion shakes his head mutely.

He can’t do it. He can’t tell him.

It feels as though the air-pressure in the room has dropped suddenly. His ears are ringing faintly.

“Thel.” Pause. “Ecthelion.”

He forces himself to breathe. “Igottatellyousomethng.” Breathe. “I need. To tell you something.”

Glorfindel’s eyes are wide, now. “You’re kind of scaring me. What’s going on? Are you—are you not well, or something?”

He shuts his eyes, tight.

“I was born—I was—I was born in the wrong body.” He doesn’t know how he manages to get the words out. It’s like coughing up rocks. He feels lighter, but raw.

Then:

“I know,” says Glorfindel simply.

Ecthelion’s eyes snap open. There’s a swooping feeling in his stomach.

“I’m—I’m that obvious?”

“What?” Glorfindel blinks. “Duilin told me. Why are you looking at me like that? Why aren’t you saying anything? I’m sorry he told me. It’s not really his fault. It wasn’t that long after I met you, and I made a stupid comment about—anyway, you probably don’t even remember—and you got kind of, er, upset? Sorry. And then you went off somewhere and Duilin told me what was up. Thel. Ehtelë. Say something—please.”

He opens his mouth to speak. Closes it again.

“I’m—processing. I’m sorry, I just—you knew? You—why didn’t you say anything?”

“I wanted you to be able to tell me yourself,” Glorfindel’s voice is maybe the quietest he’s ever heard it. “I figured you’d talk about it when you were ready.”

He blurts out the words before he can stop himself:

“You don’t—hate me?”

Glorfindel’s eyes pull wide. “Hate—? No! Oh, Gods, Thel, no. No. Don’t think that. I don’t care. I mean, obviously I care that it’s caused you a tonne of pain and misery, but I don’t care in that way. You’re you. You’re who you’ve always been.” He grins. “An annoying pretentious musician type who overthinks everything and has a really loud voice.”

Nervous laughter bubbles up from the base of his throat. And once it starts, he finds he can’t stop it. He leans back helplessly against the wall, laughing and laughing.

The transmitter on Glorfindel’s headset crackles into life suddenly.

“Hey, weirdos,” says Rog’s voice through the whistle of feedback. “Are you coming outside or not?”

Glorfindel looks at Ecthelion, who nods wordlessly again, trying to contain his laughter.

“We’ll be right out,” he says. And offers a gloved hand to Ecthelion.


End file.
